Red Light (6 page)

“Okay,” Jack, one of our many practical session instructors, said when I arrived, “you get in the back here and…” He explained what was supposed to happen as I squeezed into an old Ford Escort. As I slid along the threadbare carpeting and settled on my side, I was relieved there was no glass on the floor. The hump in the middle of the floor dug into my ribs, and I adjusted my gear belt so that nothing would jab me or get in the way of the immobilization techniques our rescuers might employ.

Feet popped in the window opposite my head as my favorite study pal Roy joined me; he was a passenger who’d been thrown from the backseat over the front, head resting on the dash.

“Hi, Scotty!” he said, his voice muffled as he stuck himself in place.

“Hey, Roy! How do you feel?”

“I feel snug!” he singsonged, and we both laughed from our uncomfortable positions in the car. Although it felt like longer, in five minutes, at most, we heard voices.

“They’re in here!” a male voice called. Within seconds, someone reached in over my head and cradled my skull with their fingertips to stabilize my neck while someone else smashed through the back window. On a three count they rolled my body as a single unit an inch or so forward until they could place a long backboard behind me.

A collar slipped in place around my neck, and one by one, I felt the three straps that would attach me to the board—the first around my shoulders, the next around my waist, and the third around my thighs. My head was firmly affixed to the board and my neck locked in place, then I heard the crew give another three count before they pulled me out of the car.

Now they could examine my hidden injury; one of them took my actual vitals and checked what they were supposed to be on the paper. They administered oxygen (and it smelled like the inside of a vitamin bottle), stabilized the impaling instrument in place, and quickly semi-sealed an occlusive bandage with a flap over the supposed wound. The crew carried me on the board to a reviewing station, where the lead rescuer presented his findings.

There the reviewers scrutinized every aspect of the operation, from the snugness and stability of my head and neck, as well as the security of my attachment to the board, and reiterated the proper steps—airway first, always, then breathing. A patient with no airway and no respiration—well, it doesn’t matter how competently they’re bandaged and packaged if they’re dead.

They also asked me if the rescuers were too rough, or if any had talked to me, introduced themselves, taken a moment to explain what was going on—medical and rescue care wasn’t just the physical but the emotional too, or at least, that’s what they were trying to teach.

Once the review was complete, I was released from the long board, free to visit the other sites and view the other rescues, including the much-anticipated demonstration of the Jaws of Life—a hydraulic-powered sort of pliers. But instead of merely cutting things, it could either slice right through the steel of a car rooftop or spread out a crushed-in door. That thing was amazing—and we demolished three cars while we reviewed its functions. Bob even threw me and Roy and Bennie leather work gloves so we got to handle it too. It was heavy and made me feel as if my very marrow was shaking to jelly, but was it ever cool.

“Nice toy, hey, kids?” Bob said as we rotated so others could learn how to use it too.

Strange. As much as we were enjoying ourselves and kidding around about playthings as well as learning how to use them, everyone undoubtedly knew how extremely vital this piece of technology was and what a difference it could make in saving lives.

Still, even with seven different scenarios and three cars to practice on with the fire department’s new equipment, we were done early, and I was happier than I thought I’d be when Bob invited me and Roy and Bennie to join his team for lunch.

In full gore, we went to Mike’s Place, a Greek diner (with no Greeks—go figure) not too far away. The staff was accustomed to the sight of the mangled and the medical eating together, and I got a plate of french fries with cheese to munch on while I soaked up the atmosphere and the banter that flowed around me. Every now and again, I’d catch Roy’s or Bennie’s eye, and we’d exchange these how-the-hell-did-I-get-to-sit-here glances.

*

But even with the fun and the jokes, it was finally time to go home, and I was two hours earlier than I’d expected to be. That was great, because maybe I’d be able to make the missing time up to Kerry—she’d been so understanding.

I was in a great mood by the time I rolled into my parking space. The day was ahead of me, and I had the beginnings of a plan—maybe a trip to Manhattan, wander about the Village, then grab dinner in Little Italy.

After rounding the steps two at a time, I stripped off my jacket and hung it on the hook right outside the door, then keyed the lock to the apartment. I was so excited about what we could do and the fun we’d have, I was already there in my head.

The shower was running as I hummed to myself down the hallway, and I figured I might as well wash off the moulage. “Hey, baby,” I shouted over the sound of the water as I stepped into the bathroom and reached for the soap, then turned the taps.

“Oh, hey, baby,” rang out lightly behind me as she stuck her head out of the shower.

Whoa—that wasn’t Kerry’s voice.

I snapped my head around and gaped at a woman, a soaking wet and naked brunette, whose eyes widened as she caught sight of me.

“Aaahhh!” she screamed, a bloodcurdling pitch that made me wince.

And then I realized—I was still in moulage.

“No, no, it’s just makeup, see?” I assured the scared, naked woman and popped off the occlusive dressing. Wait, who the fuck was this, and why the fuck was I trying to explain anything to her?

I needed answers and I wanted them now, as I felt my mind lock into a blank state, a logical state. First thing: where was Kerry? I stepped out of the bathroom just in time to meet her as she came running down the hall, wearing nothing but a T-shirt. Correction: my T-shirt. My favorite Ramones T-shirt with the presidential seal on it.

“Oh, my God!” she screamed. “What…what did you do to her?”

“Moulage,” I answered shortly, “it’s just fucking makeup.”

“Makeup? Fuckin’ makeup?” she spluttered. “It looks like someone died.”

I took a quick glance at my shirt—she was right. “Glad I dressed appropriately,” I told her flatly, then ignored her as I pushed past her into the bedroom. I don’t know what I was thinking, if I’d meant to grab a new shirt or what, but I heard our “guest” in the hallway.

“I think I should go.” Her voice rebounded against the walls.

“I think you should go too!” I called back as I ripped through a drawer searching for a new shirt. God, I didn’t know how I felt. My brain was icy, numb, a numbness that tingled through my chest and made my fingers feel cold.

“She can stay!” Kerry yelled back. “At least she has a
real
job.”

That did it for me. That was so unfair, just so wrong. I stood there a moment, not knowing what to do, breathing in and out while the ice instantly transmuted into heat, creating a steam that fogged my brain.

I don’t know what I’d thought I was going to do before, but I knew I couldn’t stay, not like this, not with my brain bleeding the way my shirt mocked.

I stalked out of the bedroom and passed Kerry in the hallway. “Guest girl” had apparently decided that discretion was the best route and hastily closed the bathroom door as I passed. She needn’t have worried—I wasn’t going to bother.

I didn’t say a word, not to her, not to Kerry, as I strode to the front door. I finally surveyed Kerry as I grabbed the latch, and she was indignant and proud as she stood there in my T-shirt, eyes blazing with either tears or anger.

“You know, maybe if you’d spent more time with me, had a more normal schedule, and given that damn class up,” she said, and this time I actually heard the quiet venom in her tone, “I wouldn’t have had to look somewhere else.”

I just shook my head, shut the door, and sped down the stairs, grabbing my jacket off the post on the way.

Shit. Shit. Shit. No way would this get fixed—what the hell was I going to do, I wondered as I walked on nerveless feet to my car.

*

I had been trying so damned hard to get somewhere, to something, make myself someone, and it just wasn’t good enough. It was never enough, not for her, not for my mother, and everyone wanted so much…

I could have forgiven Kerry’s displeasure with my hours because I understood that she wanted to spend more time with me. And it was okay that she was a little into money. I knew where she came from, and besides, it was no big deal to me; I knew I’d get there sometime, anyway.

But I absolutely could not forgive cheating, no way.

Memory surfaced, sharp and painful, unbidden, and unwanted, of my parents—of my mother weeping hysterically while my father told her he had been sleeping with his secretary, how she wasn’t the first, how he was leaving. She had clung to him and he threw her off him like she was nothing, then slammed out the door.

She had scrambled after him, and I had watched from the window as he screamed curses at her as he ran to his car, her right behind him. He obviously hadn’t cared if he hurt her when she’d reached for the door handle and he’d pulled away. He hated her. He hated us. I hated him—but I wasn’t going to turn into my mother either. I wasn’t going to chase anyone who didn’t want me.

No. Fuck around on me once, fuck around all you want because I won’t be there. That was my philosophy.

Dammit all, though. I couldn’t bear to stay with her, and I couldn’t deal with going to my mother’s—I’d hear over and over how my foolishness got me what I deserved. I slammed my hands on the steering wheel, once, twice. I breathed heavily and tried to control the heated pulse that raced through my arms, tingling through my palms where I’d hit the steering wheel.

I drove aimlessly until I reached Father Capodanno Boulevard and South Beach, then passed the drill site from the morning, and God—that seemed such a long time ago.

Finally, I pulled into the parking lot at the beach and cut the engine. As I got out of the car, the wind wasn’t cold or whipping about too much, but I knew it would get stronger and cooler when I neared the water. I flipped up the collar on my jacket as I crossed the tarmac to the boardwalk.

Following where my feet led, I finally reached the beach, then the jetty. I climbed the rocks and walked out to the end, then sat, dangling my legs off the edge, staring at the water, the Narrows Bridge to my left and Brooklyn before me.

I sat there for a long time, letting the salt spray hit my face while the gulls wheeled and kept me company, their lonely high-pitched calls soothing my brain.

Nowhere, I had nowhere to go.

The sky changed color as the sun set and the water changed with it. “If you’re in a jam,” Samantha’s voice played in my head, “call—either one of us.” She’d then programmed all of their numbers into my cell phone.

Fuck. What else could I do? I had nothing until I had my EMT license—I barely owned the college credits I’d earned, considering how long it would take to pay my student loans back. Fuck. I hoped I hadn’t already screwed myself over skipping classes. I stood and stretched, then waved good-bye to the seagulls as I walked back to my car. Before I drove off, I dug my cell phone out of my pocket, called my cousin, and left a message.

I almost didn’t go—as I pulled over in front of their house in the Silver Lake section of Staten Island (and really, only five minutes from my apartment), I had a moment’s doubt. What if Samantha didn’t mean it, what if Nina didn’t care? What if I was really as alone as I thought I was? But I pushed those thoughts aside. A promise was a promise, and I’d never known either one of them to go back on their word.

Still, I hesitated before I rang the bell, then forced myself to do it anyway. Samantha opened the door, her eyes wide as she took me in.

“Holy shit, Tori, what the hell?” She grabbed my arm and dragged me through the door.

It took me a second before I realized I hadn’t changed since the practice drill.

“No, no, I’m fine, it’s just moulage, you know, makeup,” I protested against her probing hands.

“Christ, Tor,” Samantha said, “let’s get you cleaned up before you scare the shit out of Nina.”

“Where is she?” I asked as we walked in.

“She’s, uh, indisposed at the moment.” Samantha led me to a bathroom. “Wash up, I’ll get you a clean shirt.”

*

Washed and wearing a shirt of Sam’s, a drink in my hand (scotch on the rocks, another family trait, only Nina did hers neat), and safely ensconced on their sofa, I sat next to Samantha and across from Nina as they waited to hear what I had to say.

“Oh, hey, you’ve switched to ice?” I asked Nina, glancing at her glass before I started.

“No,” she smiled, “it’s just ginger ale.”

Interesting, I thought, and filed the information away in my head with everything else. I took a sip from my own glass, closed my eyes, and inhaled slowly.

I told them my sorry tale. “You know, maybe she was right,” I concluded, musing aloud, “this was my fault. Maybe I should have quit the EMT class, or just quit some of my other classes so I could have spent more time…”